ch Mainwaring wrote,--the
cautious and lukewarm remonstrance which answered her passionate appeal.
It may be that her very doubts, at times, of Mainwaring's affection
had increased the ardour of her own attachment; for in some natures the
excitement of fear deepens love more than the calmness of trust. Now
with the doubt for the first time flashed the resentment, and her
answer to Mainwaring was vehement and imperious. But the next day came
a messenger express from London, with a letter from Mr. Parchmount that
arrested for the moment even the fierce current of love.

When the task had been completed,--the will signed, sealed, and
delivered,--the old man had felt a load lifted from his heart. Three or
four of his old friends, bons vivants like himself, had seen his arrival
duly proclaimed in the newspapers, and had hastened to welcome him.
Warmed by the genial sight of faces associated with the frank joys
of his youth, Sir Miles, if he did not forget the prudent counsels of
Dalibard, conceived a proud bitterness of joy in despising them. Why
take such care of the worn-out carcass? His will was made. What was
left to life so peculiarly attractive? He invited his friends to a feast
worthy of old. Seasoned revellers were they, with a free gout for a vent
to all indulgence. So they came; and they drank, and they laughed, and
they talked back their young days. They saw not the nervous irritation,
the strain on the spirits, the heated membrane of the brain, which made
Sir Miles the most jovial of all. It was a night of nights; the old
fellows were lifted back into their chariots or sedans. Sir Miles
alone seemed as steady and sober as if he had supped with Diogenes. His
servant, whose respectful admonitions had been awed into silence, lent
him his arm to bed, but Sir Miles scarcely touched it. The next morning,
when the servant (who slept in the same room) awoke, to his surprise
the glare of a candle streamed on his eyes. He rubbed them: could he
see right? Sir Miles was seated at the table; he must have got up and
lighted a candle to write,--noiselessly, indeed. The servant looked and
looked, and the stillness of Sir Miles awed him: he was seated on an
armchair, leaning back. As awe succeeded to suspicion, he sprang up,
approached his master, took his hand: it was cold, and fell heavily from
his clasp. Sir Miles must have been dead for hours.

The pen lay on the ground, where it had dropped from the hand; the
letter on the